Elizabeth Oldfield - Reluctant Father

Cover Page

Excerpt Gifford gazed at the child. “Why didn’t you tell me? I have a son, and yet for nine months you conceal his existence. You don’t bother to inform me that I’m a father. How dare you?” he raged. Jack began to cry. “Shh, popcorn, shh.” Cass rubbed the baby’s back and rocked him against her. “I did tell you,” she said, speaking in a fervent whisper. “I wrote two letters. Remember?” “I never received any letters.” “You didn’t tear them up?” “No.” “Are you sure?” she challenged. “Positive.” He grated out the word. “Well, I sent them. Shh,” Cass said again, rocking the baby. “We can’t talk now. Come to the villa tomorrow morning.” Gifford frowned at the bawling child. “And bring him.”

About the Author ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and a son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance accepted In 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

Title Page Reluctant Father! Elizabeth Oldfield www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

Copyright

“Why didn’t you tell me? I have a son, and yet for nine months you conceal his existence. You don’t bother to inform me that I’m a father. How dare you?” he raged. Jack began to cry.

“Shh, popcorn, shh.” Cass rubbed the baby’s back and rocked him against her. “I did tell you,” she said, speaking in a fervent whisper. “I wrote two letters. Remember?”

“I never received any letters.” “You didn’t tear them up?” “No.”

“Are you sure?” she challenged. “Positive.” He grated out the word. “Well, I sent them. Shh,” Cass said again, rocking the baby.

“We can’t talk now. Come to the villa tomorrow morning.” Gifford frowned at the bawling child. “And bring him.”

ELIZABETH OLDFIELD’s writing career started as a teenage hobby, when she had articles published. However, on her marriage the creative instinct was diverted into the production of a daughter and a son. A decade later, when her husband’s job took them to Singapore, she resumed writing and had her first romance accepted In 1982. Now hooked on the genre, she produces an average of three books a year. They live in London, and Elizabeth travels widely to authenticate the background of her books.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

THERE was the rasping of a chair on wooden floorboards.

Cassandra Morrow sighed, uncrossed her eyes and let the held-taut strand of wheat-blonde hair drop back over her brow. She made a face at the Afghan-hound reflection which she saw in the mirror. Her haircut must wait. The noise signalled that a customer had arrived—an unexpected, out-of-the-blue customer whom—frustratingly—she would have to send away.

Jettisoning the scissors, she went to peer around the open door of the ladies’ restroom. Her glance swept across the thatch-roofed, open-sided restaurant. Yes, a dark-haired man in a navy polo shirt and faded denims was sitting at a table at the far end. With his chair half turned to accommodate the stretch of his long legs, he was gazing out at the sun-sparkled sapphire of the Indian Ocean.

‘Hard luck, mister,’ Cass murmured regretfully,

‘you’re about two hours too early.’

She hoicked the blonde straggles out of her eyes, tugged at her pink skinny-rib top and hastily thumbnailed two dots of dried something—baby muesli?—from her crumpled khaki shorts. A trickle of perspiration was wiped from her chin. The Forgotten Eden guest house and restaurant might not be the London Savoy with its Grill Room, but she didn’t want to look too disreputable.

Closing the door of the sparkling-clean restroom behind her, Cass threaded a path between the cluster of batik-clothed tables. Her smooth brow crinkled. She hated the idea of turning down trade, so why should she? The opening hours were not carved in stone. Besides, plugging in the percolator or prising off a bottle top was easy. No catering skills were required there. Nor for depositing a slice of home-made coconut cake on a plate.

And if her service was extra obliging and ultraefficient perhaps the customer might feel inclined to return for a meal on some other occasion. It would be good to hear the cash till ring.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, smiling a bright, welcoming smile. ‘Strictly speaking the restaurant doesn’t open for non-residents until twelve—and today we’re serving one of our specialities which is a delicious Creole-style fish casserole. However, I’d be very happy to get you a cup of coffee or a glass of cold beer if you—’

As the man turned his head to look up at her, her smile collapsed and the sentence unravelled into silence. A stunned silence. She had heard of shock rocking people back on their heels, and now she felt herself sway. The man gazing up with narrowed grey eyes was Gifford Tait, hot-shot business tycoon, Mr Don’t-Fence-Me-In, and—her mind flew to the baby who had been wheeled off earlier in his buggy—the errant father of her ninemonth-old son.

Reaching blindly out, Cass clutched at the back of the nearest available chair. Once she had doted on his looks and every aspect about him, so why hadn’t she recognised the head of thick, dark hair, the broad, flat shoulders, his air of calm male confidence? Because she had long ago abandoned any idea that Gifford might instigate a get-together and it had never even entered let alone crossed her mind that he would seek her out in the Seychelles!

How had he known where to find her? Why, after eighteen months when he had remained resolutely incommunicado, had he decided to make the long-haul flight? she wondered, a blizzard of questions starting to swirl in her head. A fit of conscience about his offspring must have finally struck—but what did he have in mind?

To make coochy-coo, forgive-me noises over the cot? Or simply to check that the baby was thriving? Maybe the thought of ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes had inspired a desire to become a dedicated parent Her blue eyes darkened. No—never that.

Letting go of the chair, Cass stood up straight. Whatever form it took, his show of interest had come cruelly and callously late. If he expected her to toss out the red carpet or blubber her gratitude, he could think again. She was no damsel in distress about to press thankful kisses to the feet of her saviour.

And how dared he arrive unannounced? What right had he to saunter into the restaurant and take her by surprise? And pick a time when she was pink-faced from floor-mopping, hound-dog shaggy and out of shape. Furtively, she pulled in her stomach. It wasn’t that she wanted to impress him—no chance—but if she had looked halfway decent she would have felt more poised and less wrong-footed. Not so disastrously thrown.

‘I don’t—’ she started, with some heat, but he got there first.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Gifford demanded, in a low, gravelly voice with an American accent.